


Lies

by ready_to_kick_some_ass



Series: The Holmes Brothers [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Short One Shot, Unrequited Love, mentions of drug abuse, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 09:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11734455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ready_to_kick_some_ass/pseuds/ready_to_kick_some_ass
Summary: The day Mycroft helped his brother dying ended with a slammed door and icy silence.





	Lies

The day Mycroft helped his brother die ended with a slammed door and icy silence.  
  
Mycroft wasn’t angry. He had expected Sherlock not to be in a good mood after the events. That he disappeared into the guest room as soon as they arrived at Mycroft’s house, didn’t surprise him any further.  
  
He was glad that everything had gone according to plan.  
  
At least this part.  
  
What followed was full of uncertainties and risks.  
  
And he didn’t know if his emotional brother was prepared for it.  
  
*  
  
The next morning, Sherlock’s eyes were suspiciously red.  
  
Mycroft said nothing about it.  
  
He quietly drank his tea, and watched Sherlock poking around in his scrambled eggs.  
  
After some time, his brother put the fork down and stared at him grimly across the table. “Promise me you’ll take care of him.”  
  
Mycroft sighed.  
_Of course …_  
He knew exactly, whom Sherlock meant with “him”.  
“I will.”

“Swear it.”  
  
“Sherlock …” Mycroft shook his head and sighed.  
  
“Swear it!”  
  
“Good. I swear,” said Mycroft resignedly. “Are you satisfied now?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and frowned at the files that were lying on the table in front of him. “Italy?”  
  
Mycroft smiled thinly. “Yes. A good place for you to get a little sun.”  
  
“Very funny.” Sherlock packed the files into the travel bag that lay at his feet. “This is not going to be a holiday. I want to be back as soon as possible.”  
  
Mycroft cleared his throat. “You know how big the network is. It might be a complicated matter.”  
  
“A few months maybe,” Sherlock shrugged. He took a gun out of the bag and examined it. “I don’t believe Moriarty’s men are as clever as he was.”  
  
"Don’t underestimate them.”  
  
“ _They_ rather shouldn’t underestimate _me_ ,” Sherlock replied grimly.  
  
Mycroft sighed.  
  
*  
  
The time went by fast.  
  
Weeks became months.  
  
Months became a year.  
  
A whole year.  
  
Mycroft followed Sherlock’s footsteps across Europe with a mixture of worry and confidence.  
Italy, Spain, Russia, Czech Republic.  
  
He also observed John Watson.  
Or had him observed, to be exact.  
The photographs which his agents gave him spoke volumes.  
  
John’s eyes were empty. His body language showed how tired and exhausted he was.  
When Mycroft saw pictures of John on the bed in his little apartment with a gun in his hand and his head lowered, he was about to arrange for psychological help for the doctor.  
  
But then it suddenly seemed to be getting better again.  
  
John met with the inspector from time to time and was often at Sherlock’s grave.  
He still looked tired and desperate, but the gun no longer seemed to be in the center of his thoughts.  
  
Mycroft was relieved.  
He didn’t want to think about what would happen to Sherlock if John had pulled the trigger.  
  
*  
  
Once, Sherlock called. From Georgia. From a payphone.  
  
Mycroft guessed the reason for the call. Sherlock had been alone for a year now. He promised Mycroft to stay clean before he left London. But Mycroft knew his brother. He knew that Sherlock feared silence. In silence, he could hear the old siren call of the drugs even more than usual.  
Actually, he was surprised, that Sherlock hadn’t called him sooner.  
“Hello, Sherlock,” he said calmly, looking out of the window of his office into the steady London rain. “How is the work going?”  
  
A short silence on the other end.  
Then, only three words. “How is John?”  
  
Mycroft hesitated. He remembered how John had looked a few days ago. Tired. Low. At the end of his powers.  
No. He couldn’ tell Sherlock how John really was.  
“He is fine,” he lied, scratching his arm restlessly. “He goes out for a beer with the inspector every now and then.”  
  
“Good,” Sherlock said tightly. “That’s … good.”  
  
“You should concentrate on your work,” warned Mycroft in a cool tone, although he would have liked to say something quite different. But he knew, what Sherlock needed from him. “It is much more important.”  
  
“Do your work and I’ll do mine,” Sherlock said. It sounded pressed. “No more cash. I have to hang up.”  
  
And he was already gone.  
  
Mycroft put his mobile phone aside and sighed heavily.  
  
*  
  
One day, John Watson met a woman. A nurse.  
  
And suddenly, everything changed quickly.  
From short meetings to whole days spent together.  
From talking to kissing.  
  
And one day, Mycroft was sitting with a photograph of John buying a ring.  
  
He pushed it into his files with a lump in his throat.  
  
It really wasn’t a big suprise.  
Time passed. Things changed. People lived on.  
These were facts that were too well known to him.  
But would Sherlock understand?  
  
_No. No, he won’t … And I will have to tell him more lies._  
  
Mycroft hid his face in his hands.  
  
*  
  
Eventually, Sherlock had been gone for two long years.  
  
And one day, the contact with Sherlock abruptly broke off. Somewhere in Serbia.  
Mycroft was worried.  
  
And then his men found out that a smuggling ring had kidnapped his brother.  
  
For the first time in a long time, Mycroft felt a burning panic.  
The behavior of such people was unpredictable.  
They could torture Sherlock to get information.  
But they also might suddenly decide to get rid of their ballast. With a bullet to the head. Quick and easy.  
  
Mycroft set everything in motion to find Sherlock and did something he’d never done before. He left Anthea to observe John, and went to Serbia himself. Mingled with the criminals and scum.  
When he finally knew where Sherlock was, two weeks had passed.  
He was alive.  
  
Mycroft’s relief gave way to horror as he finally entered the cellar where his brother was imprisoned.  
At first, he thought it wasn’t Sherlock, who knelt on the ground with only chains holding him upright. Not Sherlock. Someone else. Not his brother.  
But it was Sherlock.  
  
And before his agents stormed the building, Mycroft saw him suffer a little more. He sat on his chair in the corner, watching and listening, and drilling his fingernails into his own leg until he drew blood.  
  
Self-control.  
  
Something that had never been difficult for him. But when he heard his brother scream, he almost jumped up and killed the Serbian torturer.  
  
“You’re late,” said Sherlock barely audibly as Mycroft finally went to him and took his face in his hands.  
  
“I know,” Mycroft said. His eyes said, _I’m sorry._  
  
Sherlock smiled weakly and lost consciousness.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock slept for a whole day.  
  
Mycroft sat by his side, in an uncomfortable hospital chair, and looked down at his sleeping brother.  
He looked young. Way too young.  
  
Mycroft carefully brushed a lock of hair from Sherlock’s face.  
He soon felt reminded of the past.  
  
Sherlock had so often been sick as a child. And constantly injured. He fell from trees and sheds. Distracted and constantly in his own world. Blind to danger. Constantly in the hospital. So often did he beg Mycroft not to leave him alone in the strange surroundings. And so many nights, Mycroft stayed with his brother. In uncomfortable hospital chairs.  
He had been there.  
Just as he was there now.  
  
Though it was no longer the same as before.  
  
Nothing was as before.  
  
Not since Sherlock had begun to harm himself. The last time Mycroft sat by the bed of his little brother, was when he had taken an overdose. It was bad for him. Nevertheless, Sherlock begged Mycroft to get him out of the hospital. He swore he would let the drugs be. But Mycroft knew he could not trust Sherlock at that moment. As hard as it was. So he forced Sherlock into rehab in a clinic.  
Even today, he could still hear the screams that followed him as he had left the clinic. "I hate you, Mycroft, I never want to seeyou again!”  
Since then, there was always a certain coldness and distrust standing between them. Mycroft had resigned himself to it.  
  
He was glad that he was in a position where he could take better care of Sherlock.  
  
And distance was often his purpose. Distance protected him and his family. Distance was his mask and armour.  
It was a means for the purpose.  
  
He had to be the stronger one.

Sherlock’s first words were as predictable as painful for Mycroft.  
“John? How is … ”  
  
“He’s fine,” said Mycroft, struggling for a calm and certain tone. “John is fine, don’t worry. I have given my word. Do you remember?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and smiled weakly. It was a hopeful smile. The first that Mycroft had seen for two years, and he felt guilty. He swallowed.  
“He certainly must have missed me,” Sherlock muttered, barely audible, and fell asleep again with a sigh.  
  
When he was sure, that Sherlock wouldn’t notice it, Mycroft put a hand on Sherlock’s warm forehead, and lowered his head.

_I am sorry …  
_

_All the lies._  
_Are they really nessecary._  
_Or will they destroy us eventually._

**Author's Note:**

> Say hello on [Tumblr](http://currently-in-my-mind-palace.tumblr.com/) :)  
> Beta: [bakerstreet-irregular](http://bakerstreet-irregular.tumblr.com/)


End file.
